The Perils of Power Washing

Last week we had four days of sunshine and we decided to forge ahead with our plan to paint the house. The sun is really intense here and wreaks havoc on painted wood. And our house is old painted wood. So on to the first step which is hiring someone to power wash the house.

Out came this nice man with his powerful jet spray and chemicals and 7 hours later we had a pristine house. So pristine that I briefly thought we could hold off painting for another year but a closer inspection showed that we still needed the paint. But, I thought triumphantly, at least the roof is done.

The metal roof is covered with patches of lichen/mold (?) and a special  chemical spray is used to kill it. After a few months the patches just slide off, washed away by the ever present rains.

All was well for another few days and then I woke up feeling really, really punk. I thought I had some kind of stomach bug. But no! I'll spare you all we went through as Dan also succumbed to the 'bug'. But we finally figured it out. Petrhaps it was the bubbles and chemical scum that tipped us off. There had been a heavy rain, and all that lichen-killing chemical stuff had gotten into our water supply. I have a habit of not sleeping well and often make myself a cup of tea (or 2) in the small hours of the morning. I had done so that night but the water was full of some chemical and in the dark and my drowsy state, I hadn't noticed.

The rest of the family was due to head back to Auckland and I was to stay here on the farm. Great, except that I still need water. And Dan needed to drain our 3 huge water tanks. So here we are with 3 hoses spewing water into the paddock in front of our house in the middle of an all day deluge of heavy rains. That paddock is now one of New Zealand's larger swimming pools.

I am collecting water from the dehumidifiers (makes for a slightly metallic cup of tea) and rationing the bottled water we have on hand. For the first time I realize how lucky we have been. Our water is so clean and good that drinking it has been a positive pleasure. I am also running around every half hour checking to see that the tanks don't drain completely and burn out the pump. And of course, I check the hoses. These tanks are seriously huge and don't drain quickly.

Oh, and did I mention that it is still bucketing rain? Of course it is!

Cold, Cold, Cold

For all you Northern Hemisphere types, let me remind you that it is the dead of winter here. And it has been cold. Yes, cold! Right here in the midst of all this greenery, ferns, and even some flowers, we have had a few hard frosts. Now I grew up in Washington, DC and we had some cold winters. Not Maine cold, or even North Dakota cold but certainly cold enough.

The difference is that we had central heating, weatherproofed houses, and I must confess, appropriate winter clothing. None of which are available to me here. So I walk around wearing my trusty farm parka indoors and out. The farmhouse you see at the top of your screen is lovely but it is old. There is no weatherproofing. We had some kind of vine growing up through the floorboards in the living room when we first moved in. There is no central heating.  There is a wood burning stove and Dan devotes a great deal of his time to keeping it going at night.

In my rooms I have nothing to complain about (although that won't stop me). I have a portable heater and stay comfy inside. Its just going out that is problemmatic. I also worry about the pregnant sheep. They seem fine. They are still bunking in the horse stalls and Dan has carried water in for them at night so they don't have to venture out. And they don't. You should see the poo palace in the mornings after they leave for breakfast.

Still, it has its upside. I shovel up the poo infested straw and lay it in the garden beds. The strawberries are thriving despite the weather. I have mulched in this powerful straw and surrounded them with large stones (to reflect heat) and the hard frosts haven't stopped them at all. They are even flowering.

We are still trapping possums down by the red, red barn but up here in my garden not so much. I guess the lower paddock possum is a hardier breed. The cold and rain don't bother him and off he goes to the nearest trap. The house possums are a cannier breed and are waiting out the weather somewhere in the bush.

Did I explain that half of Dan's farm is 'bush'? That means unspoiled forest and undergrowth to us. It also means that it is protected and cannot be touched, cut, or cultivated by law! I still wrestle a bit with that concept. You bought a 40 acre farm, 20 acres of which you can't use. You have no control over its usage or in this case non-usage. To me it seems that the country has protected land that Dan gets to pay for and I guess take care of (fire, etc.). I don't quite understand but what do I know? I'm just a doddery old American trying to adjust to life down under (way down under).

Stoic Stock

Winter is strange here. At least it’s a puzzle for me. I can’t get my head around this southern hemisphere stuff and was seriously jangled to hear Xmas music at the peak of summer. Now the 4^th of July is coming up and instead of sun tan lotion and fireworks, I’ve got parkas and freezing temperatures.

But I don’t suffer alone. My stoic stock are out there right now in a vicious rain and serious wind. And I expect them to continue on their high grass diet. At that they are better off than most of the stock around here. Dan is trying to raise the soil level here so we are running very small herds of both the sheep and cattle. This cuts way down on the damage that they can do tromping around the muddy paddocks digging up divots with their hoofs.

This also means that there is more grass for them than there would be in heavier used paddocks. So our stock is still grazing off the good stuff while other farmers have already turned to hay for feed. The down side is that the grass is out in the paddocks not under the sheltering trees or in the horse stalls of the new barn. They have to get out into the weather to eat.

This they do all day long. Right now the steers are in paddock #3 which has the creek and all those willow trees so even denuded trees afford some shelter. The animals seem happy enough but I can’t figure out why they choose to spend their nap times in the gullies at the bottom of the hill. I would assume that these are massively muddy but perhaps they are more sheltered from the wind. Hobson’s Choice – wet and muddy or wind lashed and wet.

The sheep are better off. They can always go into the barn. Of course then they can’t eat but they can be dry. I have been worrying about them since they were recently shorn and all 9 ewes are supposedly pregnant. So I decided to make their shelter a bit more welcoming. After all a birthing center should be attractive.

Yesterday I took my trusty shovel and really great wheelbarrow and went to the barn for a quick clean up. No such thing when 10 sheep have been dossing down there for a week. I wouldn’t want to have to pop out my kid there (play on words alert!). Sheep have very poor personal hygiene and their residence reflects that. I started with the bigger stuff and tossed that into the paddock for the weather to deal with. The pellet poop I carefully gathered in the wheelbarrow (along with straw) and went to my raised beds. I was going to put the poop into the beds and work it in.

Unfortunately the rains came. And how! Its like some movie set for the rains of Ranjipoor or something. Too wet and too cold for me. So right now I am sitting in my snug residence and the poop sits in the garage below me. I am sure the sheep have some terse words about my personal hygiene right now

Bon Appetit

Today we had stew. Not just any stew but stew from our own steers. Which steer I don't know. One of the dead ones anyway. And it was tender and delicious and I enjoyed it way more than the parsnips that were also part of the dish. But  I still had a few pangs. My granddaughter had more than a few.
 "Is this meat beef, Daddy?"
"Yes."
"Is it from our cows?" Solemn blue eyes staring at Daddy.
"Yes."
"I'm not hungry."

And she stuck to it. She had some bread. She even had some carrots. But she didn't have any beef.

I can't claim this is a 3-year-old's hunger strike. She wouldn't even know what the term means but she does know that this was once 'our cow'. One of our neighbors eats meat but not her own meat. Perhaps Alessia has come to that compromise. I don't know but I seem to be more and more accepting of the idea. After all, the meat is good and it is healthy and it is cost effective (translation: cheap)!

It has been a very interesting journey. From the point the meat was hauled off in the refrigerated van until we hauled it back to our oversized "coffin" freezer was 10 days. By the way, "coffin" is what the appliance store called this huge freezer but it fits.We picked the meat up and it took two loads in the station wagon to get it all back. We waited another week before I defrosted some meat for tonight's dinner.

The primary problem I'm having is that I don't recognize any of the cuts. Yes, each package is individually labeled but I don't recognize the names and most meat looks pretty much the same when freeze packaged. I can tell the difference between a roast and a Scotch fillet but what is a Scotch fillet anyway? Is it a rib eye? Or a sirloin? Or what? So now this becomes a journey of discovery not just of the limits of my conscience but of what the meat actually is.

The meat I used in the stew was called BBQ steak. It turns out to be a very thin piece of meat, somewhat the texture of hamburger, and rolled in a ball. Imagine my surprise when  I unwrapped what I thought was a thick piece of meat and got what looked like a Salisbury steak. It was good tho. But I am worried that I might have made stew meat out of what was suppposed to be a prime cut. I think I'll google some of these names and see what I come up with.

Home Kill Day

Today worked out well for us. Well, for some of us. Great for the humans, not so great for 2 steers and the 2 ram lambs. It was home kill day. We had been thinking about this day, planning for this day, and agonizing over this day for literally months.

We came to these conclusions:

We were uneasy (hard to reconcile with our ‘do no harm’ philosophy) carnivores and it was hypocritical to eat other meat and not our own.

We wanted organic meat, mainly to avoid the toxins and hormones and chemicals that we pay for when we buy store meat. This then means that we eat our meat which has ingested pure water and grass. Nothing else.

We would not allow our animals to be frightened or in pain.

So we had moved the chosen animals to the paddock next to the road several days before D (dispatch) day. I had been wondering how we would avoid stressing the animals if they were loaded into a van and taken off to the slaughter house. “Not a problem” I was constantly reassured. I still fretted. But needlessly; a huge refrigerated truck pulled up to the driveway a few feet from where the stock was.

Dan led out the steers and as they approached the truck, the home kill guy shot them in the head and they dropped in their tracks. It was over; no pain, no stress but some conflicted feelings on all our parts. These steers had been a focus of our lives for months now.

So anyway, then the two butchers went to work separating the heads, skinning and quartering the caresses. They had some kind of honing instruments strapped to their thighs and constantly sharpened their knives as they went along. It was amazing to watch the speed and deftness with which they worked. They then carted off all the unusable parts to a special trailer behind the truck and hung the meat in the refrigerated sections of the van.

Then on to the two rams. The men’s friendly advice was to castrate the rams next time. It made the skinning much easier and lessened the chance of hormones in the meat. Good to know, I guess.

So all that meat is presently hung and will be packaged and ready for us in 10 days. The storage facility is beyond clean, we get to choose our cuts,and it is all very efficient and rather overwhelming.

 I have read that some kids today don’t even know what a cow looks like or that hamburger comes compliments of the mooers. This certainly won’t be the reality for my granddaughters. Dan came in tonight with the livers of the two steers and 1/3 of 1 liver fed all of us very comfortably. He sliced it thicker than you find in the supermarkets and it was excellent. Not really a ‘liver’ taste. I enjoyed it but I  confess I had to drive thoughts of our steers out of my head once or twice. But I ate it and I enjoyed it.

Starlight Dodges a Bullet - Literally

It’s shearing day here at the farm. We’re all ready. The shearers and their dog are here. Dave and his sheep are here. Guess who isn’t here. Right! Our sheep are AWOL. Up the hill go Dan and Yael. The girls and I wait in Dave’s yards while they bring down the flock.

Did I mention that the flock didn’t want to come? They are pretty definite about staying where they are. Finally one of the shearers summons her dog and goes to help. We all hear weird noises up the hill but no sheep. Loud barks and frustrated yells, but no sheep.

At last, down come the sheep with the humans and canine far, far  behind. Yes, folks, the sheep have bolted. The dog is only half trained and can’t hold them by herself. The other shearer and his assistant bolt themselves and throw themselves in the path to block the stampede. After all, it’s a long way down to the next gate and nobody wants to take that hike.

The sheep are startled and mill around. Naavah (age 1 ½) is laughing and wants to go join them. Alessia (age 3 ½), ever the more sober one, wants to get back in the car. “You can put down the window, Grandma. I can see that way.” So in she gets. I hold Naavah and the shearing begins. Finally the shearer and Dan and Yael arrive. None of them are too thrilled with our sheep by this time.

They eventually had to pick up one of the ewes and toss her over the fence. She really, really didn’t want to go through that gate. The rest raced up hill and down leading the humans on a merry chase. At least it was merry for the sheep. I'm thinking that RAMbo didn't want to lose his poodle cut. It had served him well. In the picture below, you can see precisely how thrilled he is to get shorn.

We had left the three lambs out from the shearing because they were slated to become lamb chops in a few days. Why pay for shearing when the wool and life were both going away? But Nature always has a giggle up her sleeve. It turns out that Starlight is going to be a mommy. So no home-kill bullet for her!

We had thought that we had one ram and two ewes but no, we have two rams and one ewe, Starlight. And she is pregnant by one of her two half brothers. This means she is doomed to be sold off from our flock. We only have one ram and he’s her Daddy. No incest on our farm! Rather, no more incest on our farm. In the meantime we can’t kill her and her unborn lamb. We just can’t. So she gets sheared with the rest and goes off to join her own mommy and daddy. The two young rams settle down in their lowly corral to await the home kill guy. And that’s our next blog. Stay tuned.

The Animal Revolt Continues

The family was going to get here at the farm late on Friday so Dan asked me to shift the steers from Paddock #2 to Paddock #3. I said that I would ‘give it a go’. I am trying to learn New Zealand speak; normally I would have said that I would try.

Here’s the setup (American for the picture). The steers and the 3 lambs are in Paddock #2. The flock is in Paddock #4. Paddock #3 between the two is empty. My mission was to move the steers into # 3 so they could fatten up on the good grass even more before the home kill guy shows up to prepare two of them for our freezer. I am trying to avoid saying kill them so we can eat them but that's the reality of it.

The lambs were to stay in #2 because they were to be given to the home kill guy on Tuesday so we didn’t want them mixed with the flock and then have to separate them out again. They are skittish and not easily corralled.

How skittish I didn’t know until I hiked my way through Paddock #4, Paddock #3 and opened the gate between #2 and #3. I never thought the lambs would come anywhere near me. They never do. Correction: they never did. This time they charged the gate – and me – and ran as fast as fast could be to the final fence separating them from their Mommys and dear old Dad, better known as RAMbo.

I was furious. I tried to herd them back into #2 but no dice. They ran with carefree abandon and I finally gave up. It was getting dark and I still had the steers to move. Usually this would be simple but lately they have been rambunctious. Perhaps they recognized the home kill guy when he came out and gave them the once over. I only know that our previously placid animals were definitely jittery.

I went through the gate and called down to them. They stood there looking up at me. I begged them. I threatened them. I coaxed them. They didn't move. Finally I started down the hill to get behind them and push them up. They moved. In the wrong direction and away from the fence and gate. Muttering a promise to myself that next cattle auction I would buy steers with a double digit IQ, I trotted after them.

All the way down the hill we went. And lo and behold, there was the bottom gate which I had forgotten about because we never use it.  I opened it. I do have a double digit IQ, not much more than that but at least I could figure out to open the bottom gate if that is where the steers were. This was all taking a lot of time and I had a dinner to cook. Friday night meals are special in our house and I had planned a doozy. But this would only happen if I could be there.

Okay, finally 4 of the steers wander slowly, slowly through the gate and start munching on the ‘good’ grass. Steer 5 stops dead in the gateway and begins eating. I am trapped behind the gate and if I push the gate, he’ll back out into the wrong paddock. So I’m stuck. But I’m not alone. Steer 6 has his nose plastered against the fence a scant 4 feet from the gate. He is looking piteously at his buddies on the other side who are happily eating away. He never figures out that all he has to do is take one sideways step and he is at the gate. Again – double digits, I don’t think so.

The last steer has wandered off into some alternate universe halfway across the paddock. This can’t be good so I decide to leave the gate and climb the fence and go round up the two brain dead ones and push them toward the gate. Then the one in the gate will have to move and I can get back to the kitchen.

Now remember I never claimed a triple digit IQ and this plan proves it. I was making all sorts of assumptions about bovine behavior. I know I got my PhD in human behavior but cows are different. Not harder; just different. First of all, Nirvana cow scares piteous cow who then bolts up the hill. Dumbo in the gateway turns around and joins him in this headlong race to the top. Nirvana cow follows.

I resignedly shut the bottom gate and follow the errant three to the top. They race back down the hill. This gets old real fast. I repeat the previous sentence one more time and then give up. I stamp my way across the upper paddocks, miss the gate into #4 (in my defense it is pretty darn dark by now) and have to climb yet another fence.

I finally got back to the kitchen. Dinner was late; the lamb was undercooked and I began to campaign for turning 3 steers instead of 2 over to the home kill guy on Tuesday. I leave you to figure out which 3 I nominated to become T-bones.